


you'll never get to heaven on a night like this

by tamquams



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Happy Birthday Ronan Lynch, M/M, Ronan Compliant Language, au where there's no magic and they live in boston, blue and noah and persephone all show up for approximately 3 seconds owo, lots of late night conversations because that's all i'm good for apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27339361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquams/pseuds/tamquams
Summary: Ronan doesn’t know why he pulls into the parking lot of the diner that first night.It isn’t a particularly striking establishment; it looks like basically every other diner he’s ever been to, with large plate-glass windows he can see right through this time of night. It’s completely empty aside from the guy behind the counter, and Ronan figures it’s as good a place as any to spend a few sleepless hours.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 42
Kudos: 260





	you'll never get to heaven on a night like this

**Author's Note:**

> howdy, hope you're all doing well and staying safe ♡ here is... this! food is a really big theme in this story so if that's content you might need to avoid, i would recommend not reading! there's also a scene with a semi-nonconsensual outing. also, i don't know anything about anything, so if any of the random information in this fic is incorrect, my bad. anyway, hope you enjoy!

Ronan doesn’t know why he pulls into the parking lot of the diner that first night.

It isn’t a particularly striking establishment; it looks like basically every other diner he’s ever been to, with large plate-glass windows he can see right through this time of night. It’s completely empty aside from the guy behind the counter, and Ronan figures it’s as good a place as any to spend a few sleepless hours. He parks at the far end of the lot even though it’s mid-October and the Boston air is fucking frigid. He can see the white puffs of breath leave his lips as he heads for the entrance, and when he grabs the metal door handle, it’s as cold as ice. 

As soon as the door is open, though, a warm gust of air hits him in the face. Ronan steps inside and lets the door shut quietly behind him, sticking his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket as he looks around skeptically. The place seems pretty clean, and his shoes don’t stick to the red-and-black checkered floors when he takes a hesitant step. That’s a good sign. The counter is sparkling beneath the fluorescent lighting, like someone has spent a significant amount of time polishing it. Maybe they have. It doesn’t look like there have been any customers in several hours.

The guy behind the counter doesn’t look up at Ronan’s entrance. He’s turned away from the door, his attention on the window behind the counter instead. It seems that he’s talking to whoever is in the kitchen. “...always makes me nervous to draw The Tower,” Ronan hears him say. There’s a southern lilt in his voice that immediately grabs Ronan’s attention, although his words make little sense. “I mean, I know there are no bad cards, but…”

A feminine voice pipes up from the other side of the window, although from this angle Ronan can’t see the speaker. “No, I get it,” she says. “Calla always says that any card can have a positive meaning depending on the reading, but you should see her face when she draws—”

The woman stops talking at the exact moment that the guy whips around to look at Ronan. He has no idea what made them suddenly notice him, since he’s pretty sure he hasn’t made a single noise since entering the diner, but it doesn’t really matter now anyway. A semi-awkward silence fills the room and a normal person might apologize for the intrusion, but Ronan’s no normal person. He swings a leg over the nearest stool and settles in directly in front of the guy, leaning heavily against the counter. Then he meets the guy’s wary gaze with one of his own.

“Sorry,” the guy says, sounding less _sorry_ and more _suspicious_. “Didn’t hear you come in.” Ronan clenches his jaw and takes a second to take the guy in. He’s about Ronan’s age, probably. Tall, toned, and tan. His eyes are blue, like Ronan’s, but deeper and more alert. Dark brown curls tickle his thick eyebrows, and he’s dressed in a plain blue button-up with a name tag pinned to the breast. _Adam_ , the name tag reads. Ronan finally drags his eyes back to Adam’s face and smiles. It is not a pleasant smile.

“It’s fine,” Ronan drawls, clasping his hands on the countertop. “You seem very busy.” The waiter — _Adam_ — narrows his eyes minutely before slapping a menu down an inch away from Ronan’s arms.

“Let me know when you’re ready to order,” Adam says, turning back to the kitchen window.

Ronan doesn’t look at the menu for very long. He isn’t actually hungry; he’s just killing time. He taps his fingers restlessly against the glossy laminate and then pushes it to the edge of the counter without closing it. “Just some coffee, thanks.” He pauses as Adam turns around and folds the menu up again before sliding it underneath the counter. “Ah, fuck it,” Ronan adds. “How about a slice of pie, too?”

Adam looks unamused. Where most service workers would settle for passive aggression and shit-talking once the customer has left, Adam obviously has no intentions of remaining even performatively polite. A thrill races through Ronan’s veins, not unlike the adrenaline rush that comes with winning a race in his dad’s old Beemer. It’s always so much more fun to be an asshole when others play along. More rewarding. Ronan sizes Adam up and considers where his theoretical limits are while Adam pours out the half carafe of coffee and begins making a fresh pot.

“Old coffee would have been fine,” Ronan says, pausing the shithead act until he’s got Adam figured out a bit more. “You don’t have to make an entire pot just for me.”

“I’m not,” says Adam, scooping coffee grounds into the machine.

Well, then. Ronan scowls at his own hands for a second. It’s less of a heated scowl and more of a habitual one; it’s just the natural state of his face, especially when he’s deep in thought. Usually, Ronan prides himself on his ability to see through people, but his guy — Adam, Ronan reminds himself — is a bit of a challenge. Not unreadable, per se, but very contradictory. He’s got the lean, wiry look of someone who engages in a lot of physical activity, but more out of necessity than enjoyment. He’s attractive, like, almost ridiculously attractive, but he doesn’t have the demeanor of someone who’s been gorgeous their whole life and knows it; everything about him, from his posture to the wariness in his eyes, says _steer clear, I’m not in the mood_ , which is arguably even hotter in Ronan’s opinion. Haughty and aloof are Ronan’s _thing_ , and Adam is definitely pulling it off. But he also gives off a distinct warmth, held deep inside of him but there all the same. And brilliance — it’s impossible to look him in the eye and not see the cogs turning in there, the instinctual analysis of his surroundings. Ronan feels his palms beginning to fill with sweat.

While the coffee is brewing, Adam grabs a white saucer plate from beneath the counter and sets it down delicately. “All we have tonight is blueberry,” he says with a nod toward a fancy pie plate a few feet down the counter from Ronan. Ronan just nods, and Adam cuts a generous slice from the pastry and then slides the plate back toward Ronan. He stabs the top of the slice with a shiny fork as an afterthought.

“Thanks,” Ronan says, voice gruff. He takes a bite of the pie and then sighs quietly. It’s cold, but undeniably good. He’s never been much for dessert, but damn if he doesn’t have a new favorite food. He’s about halfway through the slice when the coffee machine beeps, and immediately Adam empties the filter and then pours the dark liquid into three large mugs.

One steaming mug, forest green and ceramic, is placed before Ronan. “Creamer?” Adam asks, pulling a small carton from the minifridge beneath the counter without waiting for an answer. He pours a small amount into one of the two extra mugs and then a lot into the second. Ronan shakes his head and Adam bends down again, shoving the creamer back into the refrigerator without ceremony. He grabs a pink packet of sugar and pours it deftly into the second mug. “Help yourself,” he says, gesturing toward the basket of sugar packets, and then he turns and hands the second mug to the still-invisible woman behind the window.

“Thanks,” the disembodied voice says, and from here Ronan can just see two dark, dainty hands grab the mug before it disappears. The woman in the kitchen must be pretty short. Adam faces the counter again and picks up the other mug, which is dark red but must have come from the same set as Ronan’s. Adam sips at his dark coffee as Ronan takes another bite of pie.

“Anything else I can get you?” asks Adam. His tone is less hostile now, and that is way less fun; there’s no feeling in his voice at all now, just politeness. Whereas Ronan’s fallback mode is _belligerent_ , it seems that Adam leans closer to _detached_. 

Ronan shakes his head. Adam’s turning away again, probably to continue his conversation with the tiny woman in the kitchen, and for some reason Ronan really doesn’t want to lose Adam’s attention. He panics. “I’m Ronan,” he says, much too loud for the space.

Adam gives him a piercing look. “Cool,” he says dismissively. He looks like he’s barely managing to repress an eye roll, which shouldn’t be hot but really is. 

Ronan tries again. “This pie is really good.”

For some reason, Adam softens slightly at that. “I’ll pay your compliment forward to Persephone,” he says. “She’ll be glad to hear _someone_ is appreciating her baking.” This last comment sounds very pointed, and judging by the feminine scoff in the kitchen, it is.

“Is Persephone the owner?” Ronan hates small talk, doesn’t even really understand why words keep falling out of his mouth, but he’s just filled with the need to keep Adam there and talking to him, so he doesn’t fight it. He thinks, absurdly, _Declan would be so proud_ , then shoves too much pie in his mouth as a self-inflicted punishment for thinking about his brother at all.

Adam sighs. His eyes flicker to the kitchen window for a second, like he’s weighing his options, and then he leans sideways against the counter a few feet down from Ronan. “She’s one of three,” he explains, taking another sip of coffee. “Maura does general management stuff, Calla deals with money, and Persephone makes the pies.” He’s smirking, just a little bit, but if there’s a joke there, Ronan doesn’t get it. He likes Adam’s smirk, though; it’s sharp and sarcastic and completely at odds with everything else Adam’s got going on.

“Have you worked here long?” God, Ronan sucks at this. He almost cringes at his own lame attempt at conversation, but he’s pretty sure that would make it even more lame. Instead he takes another bite of pie and curses at himself internally. 

Luckily, Adam doesn’t seem to notice how awkward Ronan is when it comes to moments like this. He shrugs amiably, somehow not jostling his coffee cup in the slightest. Each of his movements has this sort of effortless grace, like there’s nothing in the world that could possibly knock him off balance. “A few years, I guess,” he says. “It’s a pretty good gig, and the ladies have always been pretty good to me.” He sips at his coffee, then eyes the kitchen window again. “And Blue would probably kill me if I bailed, anyway.”

“Blue?” Ronan repeats just as the woman’s voice from earlier calls out, “For sure!”

Adam snorts. “Maura is Blue’s mom,” he says to Ronan, who is trying and failing to look less confused. “Blue and I both work here to put ourselves through college.” 

Oh, finally. Something new for Ronan to latch onto. Normally, he’d rather have his teeth pulled than discuss higher education, but he’s running out of options here, so he just goes for it. “Oh, do you guys go to UMass?” he asks between bites of pie. All that’s left on his plate is the crust, and he cuts it up with the edge of his fork to give his hands something to do. “I’m a junior there.”

Adam nods as Ronan speaks. “Blue goes to UMass,” he says, placing his mug delicately on the counter. “She’s a sophomore. Environmental studies and sustainability.” He neatly avoids offering any information about himself, but Ronan’s nothing if not persistent.

“And you?”

For the first time since Ronan walked into the diner, Adam seems somewhat nervous. “Oh. Uh. I’m a junior. Not at UMass, though. Over at, uh, Harvard.” He pauses for a second, and then an easy smile is back on his face. “What are you majoring in?”

Adam is probably the first person in history to be _embarrassed_ about attending Harvard. Ronan thinks he understands the feeling a bit as he chews on the inside of his lips, though. “Classical languages,” he admits, and he takes a long drink of coffee to hide the pink tint surfacing on his cheeks. He expects Adam’s eyes to widen or his brows to raise, but neither of those things happen. Adam doesn’t laugh, either, which is what a lot of people’s initial reactions are upon learning that information. Instead, he cocks his head, like he’s suddenly viewing Ronan in a different light.

“Like Latin?” Adam asks.

Ronan nods, almost spilling coffee on himself. He, apparently, does not have the same gracefulness as Adam. He puts the cup down, swallows hard, and then nods again. “Yeah. Exactly like Latin. That’s my language, actually.”

Adam does raise an eyebrow at that. “ _Your_ language?” he repeats.

Ronan makes a _tck_ noise. “I mean, that’s what I study. It’s, like, the only thing I study. It’s pretty much _my_ language, yeah.”

The look in Adam’s eyes is mostly unreadable, but it doesn’t seem to convey unpleasantness. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then closes it and shakes his head. “I don’t think a language can _belong_ to an individual, but okay.”

“What’s _your_ major then, Mr. Harvard?” Ronan asks, a bit sharper than necessary. He isn’t even angry; it’s just a force of habit. He shoves a dry piece of crust into his mouth.

Adam looks pained as he answers. “Anthropology,” he says, looking somewhere past Ronan. His voice is strained. “Mostly, uh, social anthropology. Like, politics and stuff.” He drinks the rest of the coffee in his mug in a few quick gulps and then sets it down forcefully and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m, um, I’m pre-law.”

Ronan nearly physically recoils, because that is so _Declan_ that it’s sickening. Instead, though, his brain quickly puts together another, slightly less disgusting connection. “Wait, anthropology? Do you know Gansey?”

This is clearly not at all the reaction that Adam is expecting, and his face softens with visible relief. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, leaning forward. “Yeah, we had a lot of pre-reqs together freshman and sophomore year. We were even in the same study group. I don’t see him as much now, because we’re in different focuses, but yeah, Gansey’s great. We still text sometimes. We still try to get together every once in a while, for lunch or coffee or whatever.” 

It suddenly occurs to Ronan that he’s actually heard Gansey mention somebody named Adam. A lot, in fact. Ronan tries to recall anything he can remember from Gansey’s ramblings, but the only word coming to mind is _brilliant_. For the first time ever, Ronan regrets not listening more when Gansey talks.

Down the counter, Adam seems to be having his own realization. He snaps his fingers and points at Ronan, almost accusingly. “You’re the roommate, aren’t you?” he asks like he already knows the answer. “With the, the, the _bird._ ” His accent expands on the word bird, drawing it out three syllables. Amusement and horror are openly warring on his face. “Of course! You come in at one in the morning, you’re majoring in _Latin_ ,” he’s so excited that his words are dripping in that southern accent, dropping his g’s and turning _Latin_ into _Lahhhh-tin_ , “oh, of _course_.”

Ronan doesn’t know if he should be insulted or endeared. Gansey _talks_ about him? To strangers? It’s very strange, but also very Gansey. He tries again to think up something else, anything else, about Parrish. His brain latches onto an off-topic comment from a huge argument he had with Gansey freshman year. “You’re the one from Virginia, aren’t you?”

Again, Adam’s reaction is very different from what Ronan is expecting. He doesn’t know what he thought Adam would do, but it certainly isn’t this: Adam shuts down entirely, his face going so completely blank that it’s almost frightening. It’s literally like a switch has been flipped, like Adam is a robot and his battery has suddenly died. Every trace of humor or interest or even humiliation is wiped from his face, replaced with an empty, emotionless stare. “Yeah,” he says simply, pushing himself upright. He takes his mug and washes it in the sink, then places it upside-down on a clean dish towel to dry. He doesn’t say anything else, and Ronan sits there silently for a few more minutes before reaching into his pocket for his wallet. 

“Thanks for the coffee,” Ronan says, slipping off his stool. He drops a twenty dollar bill on the counter beside his plate — it’s a fifteen dollar tip, not that he bothers doing the math, not that it matters to him anyway — and heads for the door. “Oh, and the pie.” He pushes the door open, pauses, and then steps over the threshold. It’s even colder out now, somehow, and he crosses the parking lot quickly, his BMW still the lone vehicle within sight. He unlocks the door and climbs in, then drives back to the apartment and drops into his bed heavily. His mind is reeling with the events of the night, but he falls asleep quickly, and when he wakes in the morning, he actually feels almost well-rested.

Ronan doesn’t plan on returning to the diner, but he does, just three nights later. It’s half past midnight when he saunters in, and this time there’s one other customer: a college-aged boy sitting cross-legged in the corner booth. The table is covered in open books and loose sheets of paper, and he seems half-asleep as he cuts a piece from his stack of waffles and brings it to his mouth. He doesn’t even look up as Ronan walks in and breezes up to the counter.

Once again, Adam’s back is turned, but Ronan speaks first this time. “Could I get a coffee?” he asks, and Adam’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn immediately. “And some pie, maybe?”

Adam finishes his current task — washing an inordinate amount of silverware — and then starts up a pot of coffee, still without even glancing over his shoulder. Ronan settles in on the same stool he occupied the last time he was here and waits for Adam to grace him with his attention.

It isn’t until a mug of hot coffee — this time the mug is big and white with Hobbes from the _Calvin and Hobbes_ comics hand-painted on the side — and a saucer of sweet potato pie are in front of Ronan that Adam finally looks at him. Ronan doesn’t smile, because he’s Ronan, but he tries to convey general friendliness through his eyes. Adam regards him warily for a second, then deflates slightly.

“You’re back,” Adam says neutrally. He doesn’t seem excited or displeased; he’s merely stating a fact. He turns away and pours himself a cup of coffee, but this time he doesn’t offer any to Blue.

Ronan ignores the dull ache of disappointment resonating in his chest and takes a long drink of his _very_ hot coffee. It takes everything in him not to spit it all out, but he swallows it down, burning every inch of his throat and tongue in the process. He’s pretty sure there are tears in his eyes, and it registers vaguely that he should be mortified, but he has bigger problems at the present. Before he can even ask, Adam fills a glass with water from the tap and places it in front of Ronan with an almost bored look in his eyes. 

Ronan gulps the water down in seconds, savoring the cool relief everywhere the water touches his raw throat. When he finally puts the glass down and wipes messily at his mouth, he gets a better look at Adam and realizes that he doesn’t look _bored_ , he looks mildly concerned but trying much too hard not to look concerned at all. The ache in Ronan’s abdomen disappears immediately.

“You okay?” asks Adam after a second, taking the glass and refilling it. He shoves his hands into the pockets of the apron tied around his waist and leans back against the countertop just beneath the kitchen window. He looks at the customer in the far corner and then back at Ronan, maybe comparing the two of them. The idea both unsettles and pleases Ronan.

“Yeah,” Ronan croaks, and it doesn’t sound very convincing at all. He takes another long drink and tries again. “Yeah, I’m good.” His voice doesn’t crack, which is progress. He temporarily abandons the water to take a bite of the sweet potato pie. It’s just as good as the blueberry. After he swallows, he dabs at his mouth with a napkin, a motion he’s familiar with more through his proximity to Declan and Gansey than through actual practice. “How’s your night going?”

Adam grinds his jaw before answering, but when he does, he sounds normal again. Like he did before Ronan brought up Virginia a few nights ago. “It’s alright,” he says with an indifferent tilt of his head. “Slow, like always, so I can’t complain.” He wraps his hands around his coffee mug, and Ronan’s eyes are drawn to the movement. He hadn’t noticed it the last time he was here, but Adam has nice hands. Really nice hands. It’s a weird thing to fixate on, probably, but he can’t really stop himself. Adam has long, slender fingers and round knuckles, and the taper of his wrist is, for lack of a better word, elegant. On his left wrist, he wears a worn-out but relatively expensive-looking watch. Adam slowly lifts the mug to his lips and the action brings Ronan to his senses; ears burning, he locks eyes with Adam again, trying to remember what they’re talking about. Nothing comes to him.

Fortunately, Adam hasn’t noticed Ronan’s distraction. Or maybe he has and he’s just taking pity on him. Either way, he comes to Ronan’s rescue. “I had lunch with Gansey yesterday,” he says, watching Ronan as if for a reaction.

Ronan furrows his brows, but otherwise doesn’t show any real emotion. “Oh,” he says, twirling his fork in his right hand. “He didn’t mention it.”

Adam shrugs one shoulder. “I’m sure he doesn’t tell you everything,” he says, and the comment is just sly enough to make Ronan suddenly wonder what _else_ Gansey doesn’t tell him. 

“What does that mean?”

Adam’s gaze flickers over Ronan’s shoulder and then back to his face. “Nothing,” he says, completely unconvincing. He sips his coffee once, twice, three times, and then shrugs again. “I just mean, everyone’s got secrets.”

“Do you?” Ronan asks swiftly. It’s obvious that Adam was anticipating a different question, that Ronan was supposed to take the bait instead of sidestepping it entirely.

There’s a dangerous (albeit hot as hell) glint in Adam’s eye as he hums. “Yeah,” he says after only a moment’s hesitation, the corner of his mouth quirking up in something reminiscent of a smirk. “I do.”

Ronan wants to press the issue. God, he’s never wanted to press an issue _more_. Instead, though, he loops back around and follows a safer route. He’s pretty sure Adam is flirting with him, but he doesn’t want to really engage until he’s certain. So he says, uncharacteristically calm, “You didn’t tell Gansey we met.”

Adam’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, the expression so fleeting that Ronan nearly thinks he imagined it. “Neither did you,” Adam says.

Ronan considers this. Adam’s not wrong; he never brought it up. The morning after Ronan had first visited the diner, Gansey asked where he’d been that night, and Ronan had just said he’d gone for a drive and gotten some coffee. Not a lie, but not a whole truth — Ronan’s particular brand of honesty. He isn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t brought it up, but he’s very curious to hear why Adam didn’t mention it, either. “No,” says Ronan, cutting another bite-sized chunk of pie and spearing it with his fork. “Didn’t come up.”

If Adam doesn’t buy it, he keeps his thoughts to himself. He shifts his weight and then crosses one ankle over the other. “I just figured, if you hadn’t mentioned it to him, you probably had a reason. Didn’t want to start any roommate drama.”

It’s a nice sentiment, if it’s true. Ronan doesn’t have a good enough read on Adam to be able to tell for sure, but at the moment, he accepts it. He offers Adam the smallest of smiles. “How gallant,” he remarks, lifting his coffee mug as if to say _cheers_. “I appreciate it, even though it wasn’t necessary.”

Adam reaches out and clinks his cup against Ronan’s. “Like I said, everyone has their own secrets. Your secrets aren’t mine to tell.” He takes a long drink from his mug.

They’re both quiet for about half a minute before the boy in the corner, whom Ronan had completely forgotten about, approaches the counter. “Hey, Adam,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. Up close, he seems small and sort of… smudgy. He’s got blond hair that sticks up in a dozen different directions and dark bags beneath his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in roughly seven years. In his delicate, pale hands, he holds a long-empty coffee cup. “Can I get some more coffee?”

With a friendly smile that Ronan has never seen, Adam takes the cup and puts it down in the basin of the sink. “Of course, man,” he says, grabbing a clean mug and filling it three quarters of the way with fresh coffee. He pours a rather generous amount of creamer and sugar into it himself, stirs it clockwise for exactly ten seconds, and then passes the cup back to the customer. “You need anything else, Noah?”

The customer — Noah, apparently — twists up his mouth while he takes a second to think. “I’m good,” he says finally, but before he can walk away Adam just shakes his head and reaches under the counter for something. His hands emerge a moment later with a small, napkin-wrapped bundle between them, which he offers to Noah with raised eyebrows and a soft smile. Noah exhales a small laugh through his nose and accepts the gift, then trudges back to his corner table and unwraps it. Ronan watches Noah carefully peel back the many layers of napkins until he can finally access the stack of several chocolate-chip cookies.

When Ronan finally faces forward again, Adam is at the sink, scrubbing at the bottom of Noah’s last cup. “How come _I_ don’t get free cookies?” asks Ronan in mock indignation. He takes another bite of pie and reminds himself there’s no way the cookies are better, anyway.

Adam turns off the faucet and turns the cup upside down on a towel, then dries his hands off and picks up his own mug of coffee again. “I only give free food to my friends.”

There’s a solid _thump_ as Ronan smacks the palm of his left hand to his chest in fake offense. He inhales loudly, shaking his head, and then frowns up at Adam. “Ouch, Parrish,” he says. “Tell me how you really feel.”

Instead of bantering back, Adam studies Ronan for a few seconds. He has the clinical stare of a doctor reading a CAT scan, and it sets Ronan on edge. Finally, hesitantly, he says, “You know my last name.”

Ah, fuck.

It would be pretty easy to play it off like Gansey mentioned it (in fact, Gansey probably _had_ mentioned it, at least half a dozen times, not that Ronan was paying attention). Ronan hesitates for half a second too long, though, and that option flies out the window. The truth is an option, probably, but wouldn’t it be weird for Ronan to say that he spent a solid thirty minutes going through Gansey’s social media until he found Adam, the right Adam, and his private Instagram account and his private Facebook account and his public Twitter account with zero tweets? It would be too weird. So Ronan hesitates some more, trying desperately to figure out something not-creepy to say.

Adam stares at him with raised eyebrows through all of the uncomfortable silence, then exhales loudly, shaking his head. “You are not very good at this whole ‘conversation’ thing, are you?” he asks, only half-mocking. Ronan feels his cheeks growing pink.

“Shut up,” grumbles Ronan, glaring at what’s left of the pie on his saucer. He’s glad for the opportunity to avoid the awkward question, but he hates that Adam practically carries the entire conversation. He wants to contribute, too, more substantially than his general quips and snarkiness. He chews on his lip and then says, “Tell me a secret.”

Adam snorts into his coffee cup, then puts it down. “Excuse me?” he says, arching an eyebrow. He seems — rightfully — bemused by this turn in conversation. 

“You heard me,” Ronan shoots back, his tone leaving little room for disagreement. “Tell me a secret. Any secret.”

For an indefinite amount of time, Adam considers this. He stares intently at a spot on the counter not far from where Ronan’s left hand rests, and Ronan refuses to give in to the impulse to pull his hands into his lap. After quite a while, Adam asks, “How secret is a secret?”

“Huh?” 

Adam drums his fingers lightly on the clean countertop. “Like, is a secret something that _no one_ else knows? Or something that only a few people know? Is a secret something that I don’t even know? Be more specific.”

Well, now Ronan’s sufficiently confused, too. He tries not to show it, and gazes thoughtfully at the hollow at the base of Adam’s throat. “Something no one else knows,” he decides, tilting his head. “That’s a secret.”

Adam leans back, frowning. Why ask if he didn’t want that answer? He seems to still be willing to play along, at least. He thinks some more, sighs deeply, and then meets Ronan’s eye. He leans in confidentially and says, absolutely serious, “I don’t know how to play pool.”

All Ronan can do for a moment is blink at him. Finally, he finds the ability to form coherent sentences, and says, “Wait, really?” It isn’t that he had been hoping for a dramatic secret, necessarily; it’s just that this is so random that it seems worse, almost. “Are you serious?”

“As the grave,” says Adam. He cocks his head at Ronan. “Your turn.”

Ronan doesn’t even think before saying, “I never learned how to ride a bike.”

It’s the truth. None of the Lynch brothers can ride a bike, as far as Ronan knows. Neither their mother nor their father had ever taken the time to teach even one of them, so they had just… never bothered looking into it. It doesn’t bother Ronan, really; in fact, he finds it sort of amusing. 

Adam smiles then, and it’s the closest to friendly he’s ever looked at Ronan. “I could teach you, if you want,” he says, lifting one hand to scratch absentmindedly at the back of his neck. “I mean, if you were ever interested.”

For the first time in his life, Ronan kind of wants to learn how to ride a bike.

“Okay,” he says slowly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it doesn’t, when Adam’s smile just grows a bit wider, Ronan adds, “and I could teach you how to play pool.”

Adam’s lips part, revealing a luminescent grin that Ronan would do absolutely anything to see again. “It’s a date,” he says. His smile falters. “A _deal_ ,” he corrects himself, blushing profusely. “A deal. It’s a deal.”

Ronan’s entire body feels like it’s buzzing beneath his skin. He needs to take the Beemer out of town and do a hundred miles per hour on some dark, abandoned road. With a half-feral grin, he stands up and drops a bill on the counter without even looking at the number in the corner. He downs the rest of his coffee, eats the last bite of pie, and then walks backwards out of the diner, giving Adam a two-finger salute. “It’s a date,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, and then he’s gone.

“You left me a forty-five-dollar tip,” Adam says in lieu of greeting the moment Ronan steps through the diner door.

It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Ronan last saw Adam. Seventeen, to be exact. Not that Ronan is counting or anything; that would be ridiculous. It’s just simple math. He left the diner at about one in the morning, and now it’s eight in the evening. Simple.

“Do you ever go home?” Ronan asks, instead of admitting that he hadn’t realized he had paid with a fifty-dollar bill. Not that it matters to him, but still. Probably not a good look to just throw money around without so much as glancing at the bill first.

Adam just frowns, opens the register, and counts out forty dollars. “Here,” he says, thrusting the bills toward Ronan rather aggressively. Ronan inspects the money for a second but shakes his head, throwing himself down on an empty stool. There are more people in the diner than he’s used to, about ten customers and even a waitress. The waitress, a tall, beautiful woman with lots of dark, curly hair, looks Ronan up and down before smiling flirtatiously at him. He doesn’t return the smile.

“I am not accepting it,” Adam says firmly. His mouth is set in a perfectly straight line, and his eyes are hard. He looks angry, genuinely angry, and Ronan doesn’t even begin to understand why. “Take the money, Lynch.”

“You know my last name,” Ronan says with a razorblade of a grin, knowing damn well it’s a bad idea. He watches as every muscle in Adam’s body goes taut, every line of his face sharpens. Voice low, like the voice he uses on frightened or angry animals, Ronan says, “It’s not a big deal, Parrish. Keep the money.”

It looks like it’s taking all of Adam’s self control to keep from throwing the cash in Ronan’s face. Slowly, his hands shaking, Adam unclenches his fist and drops the money on the counter, directly in front of Ronan, and then turns and walks into the kitchen without another word.

Ronan pockets the money angrily and walks out without ordering anything.

It’s an entire week before Ronan returns to the diner.

He isn’t planning on coming back, actually, fully intends to never venture inside again, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He’s driven past the place every night since he was last there, always making sure to slow down just enough to confirm that Adam is at the counter before speeding away. Tonight, though, he can’t see Adam anywhere when he passes by. So Ronan makes a split-second decision and jerks the wheel, peeling into the parking lot with an embarrassing squeal of his brakes.

When he walks into the diner, it seems empty. Not one table is occupied, not one employee is in sight. If it weren’t for the bright neon ‘OPEN’ sign flashing in the front windows, Ronan would think that the restaurant is closed and someone just forgot to lock the door. There’s a small bell on the counter that he can theoretically ring for service, but that feels presumptuous. Instead he just sits quietly on his usual stool and waits.

According to the analog clock on the wall behind the counter, he waits for seven minutes exactly before the kitchen door opens and Adam backs through it. He seems to be gesturing with his hands, still talking animatedly even as he moves toward the kitchen window to continue his conversation properly. “...a line forming behind him, and he _still_ won’t take the hint and get out of the way, and I’m giving him my best literally-could-not-care-less-about-this-conversation face and, he’s just like, ‘so, are you free tonight?’ and I say, ‘no, I’m probably going to be here all afternoon since the check-out line is currently wrapping around the presidential autobiographies, and he doesn’t even bat an eye! He’s just like, ‘oh, what about tomorrow?’”

Through the kitchen window, Ronan can see a few inches of black curls bobbing as somebody — presumably Blue — shakes their head vigorously. “What did you say?”

Adam’s back is still to Ronan as he answers her. “I lost it. It was _bad_ , Blue. I was like, ‘oh my god, Tad, can you not take a fucking hint? I’m not interested. At all.’ And he got this really hurt look and I almost felt bad but then he said, ‘but we had such a good time on our date!’ and I had to remind him that I literally _snuck out the window_ half an hour in.”

Blue bursts out laughing, and Ronan involuntarily lets out a chuckle himself. Adam spins around, face bright red, and wrings his hands nervously. “Ronan,” he says cautiously, and he’s blushing all the way down to the top button of his shirt. “I, um, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Obviously,” says Ronan, semi-pleasantly. He pats his palms against the slick countertop a few times. “You okay, Parrish?”

The blood drains from Adam’s face, his flush being replaced by an almost sickly pallor in seconds. He looks afraid — no, _terrified_ — of something, and Ronan does not get it. He looks over his shoulder, but there’s nothing there, so he furrows his brows and takes a second to replay the conversation Adam and Blue were having before they realized Ronan was there. Something about a check-out line, some asshole named Tad, a bad date…

The dots connect in Ronan’s brain.

Adam Parrish is attracted to men.

Ronan just heard Adam Parrish discussing his attraction to men.

Adam Parrish doesn’t know that Ronan is _also_ attracted to men, and not a raging homophobe.

“Parrish,” says Ronan in what he hopes is a warm, comforting tone. “Dude, it’s okay. No, listen to me, it’s okay. I’m sorry that I heard something that you weren’t comfortable with me hearing,” he says, and Adam nods slightly, but still looks like he’s just seen a ghost. “Okay, a truth for a truth, okay?” he waits, and Adam nods again. “I’m gay. So it’s okay. Really.”

Finally, a bit of color returns to Adam’s face. His shoulders sag with visible relief, but his eyes are more analytical than anything else. “Really?” he asks, like he thinks Ronan might be lying just to make him feel better. As if that’s Ronan’s style at all.

“Really,” drawls Ronan. He leans forward, bracing himself on his elbows. “Here’s something else you should know about me: I never lie.”

Adam snorts, but he looks a lot more comfortable than he did a few minutes ago. He drops his walls an inch or two and rolls his eyes, then starts making a fresh pot of coffee without even asking Ronan for his order. “Been sleeping any better?” Adam asks, not looking at Ronan as he speaks.

“Huh?”

Adam scoops an absolutely absurd amount of coffee grounds into the machine and then presses a few buttons. “You haven’t been in in a while,” he says with a shrug, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “Figured maybe you were finally fixing your shitty sleep schedule.”

Face burning, Ronan thanks God that Adam is still looking away. It pleases him to no end that not only did Adam notice his absence, but Adam _thought about it_ , came up with a theory and everything. Ronan tries to school his features into an expression less than absolutely giddy before Adam turns around and sees him grinning like a maniac, but it’s of little use. Instead of a scowl, his lips just twist into a smile that’s trying too hard not to be a smile. “Oh,” he says, cringing at how positively _elated_ he sounds. He clears his throat and focuses on sounding more gruff and indifferent. “Oh, I’ve just been…” His eyes dart around the diner as if he’s looking for a semi-truthful word to pull from the air. “Preoccupied.”

By ‘preoccupied,’ he means burying himself in extra credit work for the first time in his life in an effort to avoid Adam and his strange, unexpected anger, but that doesn’t really need to be said.

“Oh,” says Adam. He nods and uncovers the pie plate sitting on the counter. It’s apple tonight, and the slice he cuts is nearly a quarter of the entire thing. Adam slides the plate down the counter toward Ronan and then pours him a cup of coffee. Once Ronan’s usual order is sitting in front of him, Adam gets himself a cup of coffee as well. 

Ronan sips at his black coffee, careful not to burn himself tonight. “Aw,” he says. “Did you miss me, Parrish?”

Adam rolls his eyes, but Ronan notices that he also completely avoids answering the question. Instead, Adam says, “Our pie yesterday was key lime. You would have liked it.”

Once again, there is something exceptionally satisfying about the idea of Adam thinking about him. Even just in the context of a pie. He hides the uptick of his lips by shoving a large bite of apple pie into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully. After he swallows, he wipes his mouth with a napkin and says, “Well, this apple is really good.” He drinks a bit more coffee and adds, “Perfect birthday pie, if you ask me.”

Adam arches one flawless eyebrow. “Is today your birthday?” he asks.

Ronan nods. “It is.”

“How old are you now? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one,” corrects Ronan, shaking his head. 

Adam smiles, but it looks more habitual than genuine. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here instead of, I don’t know, with your friends?”

The question hits Ronan like a slap to the face. He blinks once, twice, three times, then leans back a bit. “Well,” he says, his voice taking a sharper tone than he usually uses on Adam. “That’s an odd way to tell someone ‘happy birthday.’”

“Happy birthday,” Adam says belatedly. He seems unrepentant but confused. “Now answer the question.”

Ronan’s not in the mood for this shit. He stabs his pie and frowns down at the plate, torn between storming out or just telling Parrish to fuck off. He does not do either of those things; what he says is, “I told you I can’t ride a bike. We’re friends now, whether you like it or not.”

Adam’s smile widens the tiniest bit. This time, it meets his eyes. “Fair enough,” he says.

They’re both quiet for a few minutes, drinking their coffees, and then Ronan says without thinking, “What time do you get off?”

The speed at which Adam answers gives Ronan no time to be nervous about it. “Two.”

Ronan glances at the clock beneath the counter; it’s just about one now. Personally, Ronan isn’t tired in the slightest, and he knows he’ll be able to function with next to no sleep tomorrow, but it’s probably a different story for Adam. He has to ask, though. “After your shift, if you’re up for it, you should let me teach you how to play pool.”

Adam smirks. “Okay, but you’re learning to ride a bike tonight, too, then.”

“Sounds good,” says Ronan, and he takes another sip of coffee.

It’s closer to two-thirty when Adam finally clocks out, and even then Blue has to physically remove him from the kitchen and promise multiple times that she doesn’t mind locking up by herself. Adam tells Ronan to follow him back to the apartment he shares with Blue so that Adam can retrieve his bike, but when Ronan puts his car in park in front of Adam’s building, he rolls his window down and calls Adam over. “Get in, Parrish,” he says over the growl of the BMW’s engine. “Pool first, bike second.” 

Adam raises an eyebrow. “Can I change out of my work clothes first, at least?” 

“Fine,” says Ronan. “But it’s cold as shit out here. I’m coming in, too.” Adam looks like he wants to argue, but he just leads the way upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.When they reach the top he turns immediately toward the door on the left, unlocks it quickly, and ushers Ronan inside. 

The apartment is pretty dark, and Adam doesn’t pause to turn any lights on before heading down a short, unlit hallway. He disappears for less than a minute and then comes back through just as quickly. “Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”

A few minutes later, they’re tearing through the dark streets on their way to Ronan’s apartment. Ronan considers taking Adam to a shady bar, but he’s not sure that’s Adam’s style, and anyway, Monmouth is closer. Plus, Gansey is in D.C. this weekend visiting his family, so Ronan’s got the place to himself. Not that he plans on doing anything that requires Gansey’s absence, but, well, he’s definitely thankful that he won’t have to have any awkward discussions about why Ronan didn’t tell Gansey he had befriended one of Gansey’s classmates.

When they get to Monmouth, which is more of a dilapidated warehouse than an apartment, Adam takes it in quietly, his eyebrows raised. He doesn’t say a word as they ascend the stairs, as Ronan unlocks the door and then rams it with his shoulder to force it open, but once Ronan flips the light switch, Adam lets out a low, vaguely-impressed whistle.

“This place is…”

“Yeah,” Ronan says, shrugging off his leather jacket and throwing it across Gansey’s desk chair. “All this shit is Gansey’s.” He waves his hands around as he speaks, gesturing at the stacks of books and dusty artifacts and half-painted cereal boxes littering every flat surface (and most of the floor). He kicks off his boots, sending them flying, and then heads for the kitchen-bathroom-laundry area. “Want anything to drink?”

“Oh, no thanks,” says Adam, still standing near the door. “I don’t drink.”

Ronan glances back over his shoulder. “I mean, like, soda or whatever. Water. Hot chocolate. Orange juice.” 

“Hm,” hums Adam. “Orange juice sounds good, I guess.”

Ronan pours two glasses of orange juice and then returns, holding one glass out for Adam and then drinking half of his own in one go. “I don’t drink either,” he says, for no reason other than he can’t think of anything else to say. “Not anymore, anyway.” He doesn’t offer any more information, and Adam doesn’t ask. Ronan likes that about Adam, that he seems to understand that there’s some shit you just don’t wanna explain. In fact, out of the two of them, Ronan’s somehow the one that could stand to remember it more often.

“Where is Gansey, anyway?” asks Adam after draining his glass.

Ronan takes the empty glass from Adam’s hand and puts it down on a stack of old newspapers that Gansey was supposed to throw out three months ago. “Visiting family,” he replies, placing his own glass next to Adam’s. “You can take off your jacket if you want, you know.”

Judging by the look on Adam’s face, he had forgotten he was still wearing his coat to begin with. It’s not a peacoat or anything fancy like Ronan might have assumed Adam would wear; it’s a denim jacket, clearly cared for but worn just the same. One elbow is patched with careful, methodical stitches, and there’s a homemade enamel pin that reads _FOX WAY_ in clear black lettering. Adam folds the coat over his arm and Ronan takes it from him and throws it on top of his own jacket.

“What’s Fox Way?” Ronan asks as Adam unties his shoes (black high-top Converse, toes scuffed to hell but otherwise in good shape).

Adam gives him a strange look. “The… diner?” he says, his voice turning up at the end in a question. “Where I work? And you come in at all hours of the night?”

Ronan nods. It’s just occurring to him that he’s never actually bothered to read the signs at the diner; he had never even considered that it might have a name. In his head, it was always just _the diner_. He tries to push back his embarrassment as he turns and heads for the pool table near the middle of the room. “Oh,” he says, padding across the room. “Cool.”

Adam just snorts, following behind him. He crosses to stand on the other side of the table from Ronan, bracing himself on the side of it as he inspects the green felt. Monmouth’s pool table is old, and if Ronan remembers correctly, came from a trash heap on the side of the road. He does not say this out loud, instead setting up the game and reaching over to hand Adam a pool cue. When Adam takes it, his hand brushes Ronan, and Adam’s ears turn pink. 

It turns out that Adam knows basically everything there is to shooting pool, at least in theory. When Ronan makes a joke about iMessage games, Adam just tilts his head like he doesn’t understand, but says nothing. He tries a few times to hit a ball but screws up, the cue just scraping the edges, and Ronan is fully aware that he is a cliché but he can’t stop himself from coming up to Adam and helping to adjust the positions of his hands on the cue.

“It’s just, you wanna bend your arm here,” Ronan says, fingers tightening around Adam’s biceps as he pulls it back a bit, “and you want this hand here.” He places his own hand over one of Adam’s and slides it down the cue slightly. He’s purposely standing to Adam’s left side, refusing to stand directly behind him like guys do when they’re flirting in bad movies, and Adam keeps tilting his head like he can’t quite hear Ronan properly. When Ronan releases him, though, he manages to hit a ball finally; it doesn’t go into a pocket, but it comes pretty close, and Ronan is pleased with his attempt at teaching.

Adam, however, won’t stop until he’s a pro. He requests Ronan’s assistance a few more times, and although he’s obviously trying to be subtle about it, Ronan can tell he’s doing everything in his power to keep Ronan generally on his right side. Ronan almost asks about it, but stops himself at the last second. Adam minds his business, for the most part, so it’s only common courtesy that Ronan should do the same.

It’s about an hour before Adam is fully satisfied with his pool skills. In that time, he manages to brush hands and elbows and shoulders with Ronan about a thousand times, and more than once he looks up at Ronan through his lashes in a manner that can only be described as _coquettishly._ Ronan spends a good portion of the game blushing, scowling, or swearing under his breath, and each of those three actions just seems to rile Adam up. In the end, Ronan wins, but just by the skin of his teeth. He’s still grinning smugly as he crosses the room in search of his boots.

“That’s harder than it looks,” Adam says, sitting down on a ratty old couch while he yanks on his shoes. “You’re a good teacher, though.”

Ronan does not blush. He really doesn’t. “Yeah, yeah,” he says offhandedly, throwing himself down on the floor beside a different, easier-to-locate pair of discarded boots. “You know, I’m pretty sure we have a bike around here, somewhere.”

“You do?” 

Ronan thinks on it for a second. “We do,” he says, lacing his words with far more certainty than he actually feels. “It should be downstairs. Let me go look.”

There is a bike downstairs, as it turns out, and it’s in a lot better shape than it has any right to be after sitting in a cold, damp room for an indefinite amount of time. Ronan wheels it out into the mostly-empty Monmouth parking lot and then shouts up at the door till Adam pokes his head out, still shoving his arms through the sleeves of his denim jacket.

“Come on, Parrish!” Ronan yells. “Come teach me how to ride a bike!”

Adam, it turns out, is a remarkable teacher. It shouldn’t surprise Ronan, because Adam is obviously brilliant and talented and completely and utterly perfect, but it still does just a bit. He is also, to Ronan’s greatest pleasure, very hands-on.

Adam has an opinion on how Ronan should sit, how he should hold the handlebars, how he should position his legs when the bike isn’t moving — and he moves Ronan’s body into all of these positions himself, his hands warm and steady through the fabric of Ronan’s clothes. It’s cold as fuck, like always, and neither of them are particularly bundled up, but Adam spends about twenty minutes in close enough proximity to Ronan for them to share body heat pretty effectively. In fact, Ronan doesn’t even register how cold it really is until Adam is stepping away and instructing him to begin pedaling.

For a second, it seems easy. Like, ridiculously easy. Ronan starts pumping his legs and the bike starts moving forward, and he has to say, it’s pretty great. But then the bike starts leaning, and it occurs to him that he has to stay balanced _and_ pedal _and_ steer at the same time, and the task becomes a thousand times more daunting. 

“You’ve got this!” Adam calls from behind him. Ronan can hear Adam’s footsteps, like he’s trying to keep up in case Ronan falls, but also trying to stay far enough behind so that Ronan can’t see him. “You’ve just gotta focus!”

That would be easier to do if Adam wasn’t yelling at him, but Ronan doesn’t say that. He goes a few shaky circles around the parking lot, punctuated by several stops and starts whenever he loses his balance, and then decides he’s cold and uncomfortable enough to call it quits. “Okay, Parrish,” he says as he dismounts near the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t think I’m ever gonna be winning the Tour de France, but I feel sufficiently educated.” He walks the bike back into the lonely downstairs area and then leads Adam up the stairs once again.

It’s way past four in the morning now, and Ronan’s finally feeling the effects of sleeplessness. Judging by the way Adam flops down on the couch before Ronan’s even got the door shut, he’s not the only one. Ronan forces himself to make some hot chocolate to warm them up, then sits down a cushion over from Adam and leans his head back.

He really doesn’t want to take Adam home now, doesn’t want to drive twenty minutes before he can crawl under his blankets and pass the fuck out. He takes a few sips of his warm drink and tries to figure out how to word his next idea. As always, Adam fills the silence in the meantime.

“Oh my god, it’s so late,” Adam says, rubbing the side of his hand across his cupid’s bow. “Or, early, I guess. God, sorry to keep you up all night.”

Ronan’s pretty sure that _he’s_ the one who kept _Adam_ up, but he doesn’t argue the point. “It’s fine,” he says dismissively. “I was gonna be up anyway.” He pauses like he’s thinking, even though he already knows exactly what he intends to say next. “Hey, if you want, you can just stay here. Sleep on the couch. I can take you back to your place in a couple of hours, after we get some sleep.” His face is burning, but when he sneaks a look across the couch, Adam’s eyes are closed.

“Oh, you don’t have to say that,” says Adam, even as he seems to fall half-asleep with the cup of hot chocolate still in his hands. “I can walk home. It’s fine.”

Ronan scoffs. “No. No way. It’s too cold and too late and too far. Just stay here. I’ve got some extra blankets, and nobody’s gonna bother you.” He nudges Adam’s leg with the toe of his boot. “Come on, Parrish.”

Adam thinks about it for so long that Ronan thinks he may have fallen asleep. Finally, sleepily, Adam says, “Fine.” Ronan’s pretty sure that he’s agreeing more as a favor to Ronan than for himself, but hey, whatever works. Adam drains the rest of his drink and puts the cup down, then clumsily shrugs off his denim jacket and balls it up like he intends to use it for a pillow.

Ronan takes their empty coffee cups to the bathroom-kitchen-laundry room and leaves them in the sink to soak, then changes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. He grabs another set of pajamas for Adam as an afterthought, and while Adam steps into the other room to change, Ronan takes half the pillows and blankets from his bed and arranges them on the couch in what he hopes is a relatively comfortable set-up. Adam returns and falls right into the fluffy pile of bedding, sighing contentedly. Ronan takes that as his cue to leave, and he’s about halfway to his bedroom door when Adam’s muffled voice stops him in his tracks.

“You know,” says Adam from beneath Ronan’s favorite comforter, “I’ve never been to a sleepover before.”

Standing near Gansey’s king-sized bed in the middle of the room, Ronan crosses his arms over his chest. “Really?” he asks. 

“Mhm.” Adam readjusts one of his — Ronan’s — pillows slightly. “I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up.” It’s a confession that would never be made if it wasn’t four in the morning, if Adam wasn’t brain-dead with exhaustion. Ronan finds himself approaching the couch again.

“This can be a sleepover, if you want,” he offers, not really listening to himself speak. Adam peers up at him from a small gap between blankets, blinking languidly.

“Sure,” Adam yawns after a few seconds. 

The couch is long enough to accommodate them both, but not without some overlap. Ronan grabs the rest of his pillows and blankets and returns, making a nest for himself at the other end of the couch from Adam and then climbing in gently, so as not to disturb his companion. Adam’s pretty much dead to the world where he curls in a mound of pillows, but still.

It’s another couple of minutes, during which Ronan has drifted most of the way to sleep, before Adam murmurs, “Ronan?”

“Hm?” Ronan hums from his complimentary cocoon.

“Thanks for letting me stay.”

The ache that’s been buried deep in Ronan’s chest for the past week or so blooms. He feels it everywhere, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, this strange mixture of melancholy and adoration. He wishes he had Adam’s head resting on his chest, or his hands in Adam’s hair. He’s never _wanted_ like he does now, bone-deep and immeasurable. Near the center of the couch, his legs rest against Adam’s, and the contact is both too much and not enough at the same time.

“Thanks for staying,” Ronan whispers, so quiet he isn’t even sure that Adam hears him.

There’s a rustling in the blankets then, and after a moment, one of Adam’s hands appears. It fumbles across the bedding and then slips beneath Ronan’s blankets, obviously searching for something. Adam’s fingers skate over Ronan’s knee and then his thigh before landing on his hand and squeezing. Ronan doesn’t pull away, and after a second, Adam is intertwining their fingers. Ronan experimentally brushes the pad of his thumb over one of Adam’s knuckles, and Adam sighs. They fall asleep like that, holding hands in the warm darkness of their couch-nest, and when Ronan wakes up a few hours later for mass, Adam’s hand is still in his grasp, warm and solid and _real_.

Mass really seems to drag that morning, more so than usual, and Ronan is exceptionally impatient as he drives across town back to Monmouth. He didn’t leave a note for Adam upon leaving that morning, which he regrets; what if Adam wakes up to an empty apartment and decides just to walk home? The idea alone sends a wave of guilt through Ronan’s stomach. Even if he wasn’t adverse to cell phones, he isn’t able to text Adam since they don’t have each other’s numbers. By the time Ronan’s got his BMW parked in the lot outside Monmouth, he’s made himself an anxious mess, and he races up the stairs and throws himself through the front door with alarming force.

It turns out that his panic is unfounded, because Adam hasn’t moved an inch since Ronan left. He’s still sound asleep on the couch, wrapped up in every blanket Ronan owns, eyelids fluttering as he dreams away. Ronan sighs in relief and starts to make his way across the room, thinking about changing back into pajamas and getting back under the blankets, but he isn’t quite through his bedroom door when he hears Adam say his name.

“Ronan,” says Adam. Ronan turns to face him and watches as Adam pushes himself into an upright position, blowing a few unruly strands of hair out from in front of his eyes. “Are you wearing a suit?”

Ronan looks down at himself. He is wearing a suit, actually, and it isn’t even in a state of disarray. His tie is tied, his blazer buttoned, his slacks ironed — he looks, abhorrently, kind of like Declan. “Yeah,” he says with a scowl, looking back up at Adam. “I just got home. From church.”

He doesn’t know what sort of reaction he was expecting from Adam, but it certainly isn’t the whole-body _look_ that Adam levels him with. Adam’s eyes, still half-lidded with sleep, travel up and down Ronan’s body in a sort of awestruck way, and then he seems to realize what he’s doing and locks eyes with Ronan.

“Oh,” says Adam simply, his entire face flushing. “Cool.”

Smirking dangerously, Ronan reaches up and loosens the knot of his tie. “I’m gonna make breakfast, what do you want?” He leans against the doorframe and cocks his head at Adam, awaiting his answer.

For a second, Adam seems positively speechless, staring hungrily at Ronan’s collar. When he answers, he addresses Ronan’s neck. “What are you making?” 

Ronan bites his lip as he thinks, fully aware of the effect he’s having on Adam. “I was just gonna have scrambled eggs and toast,” he says, even though he hadn’t planned on having anything at all until right this second.

“That sounds good to me,” Adam says, and his voice is strained.

Ronan’s grin is wicked as he shucks his blazer. He throws it through his open door and then unties his tie completely, sending it after the blazer. “Just gimme a second to get changed,” he says, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt as he speaks, and he watches with great satisfaction as Adam’s eyes widen and he disappears beneath the blankets once more.

Ronan actually goes into his room to finish undressing and change back into his pajamas, and when he emerges, Adam is out from under the blankets and rubbing the sleep from his face. He eyes Ronan warily but says nothing, just follows him into the bathroom-kitchen-laundry room in sock feet.

“Is this kitchen also a bathroom?” Adam asks as he enters the narrow space. His face is scrunched up in half-disgust, half-amusement. “That’s horrifying.”

Unearthing a rarely-used frying pan from a cabinet, Ronan just shrugs. “That’s life, Parrish.” He opens the fridge and pulls out the carton of eggs, mentally going through the steps of how to scramble them. It’s not that he doesn’t know, it’s just that it’s been a while since he’s actually cooked, and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Parrish.

Parrish, who has already managed to find the coffee grounds and start brewing a pot. He’s like a caffeine-detecting machine. While he’s at it, he pops four slices of bread into the toaster by the coffee machine. Ronan turns the stove on and starts preparing the eggs.

When Ronan turns around next, Adam is reaching for mugs on the top shelf, exposing a strip of bare skin at his lower back. His shirt — an old shirt of Ronan’s actually — rides up when he stretches, and it takes all of Ronan’s self-control not to reach out and touch. He’s pretty sure that Adam isn’t even aware of it, but it still feels kind of like payback for the suit thing. Ronan sniffs indignantly and focuses his attention on stirring the eggs.

A few minutes later, they’re eating breakfast side-by-side on the couch where they slept, plates perched precariously in their laps. Adam drinks three-quarters of his coffee before even touching his food, like he doesn’t even have the strength to lift a fork till he’s got caffeine in him. Ronan pulls the crust off his toast before eating it, and purposely jostles Adam with his elbow every couple of minutes. 

They eat in silence, and when they’re both done Ronan takes their plates and stacks them on the coffee table in front of them. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he should really take Adam home soon, that Adam probably wants to take a shower and sleep in his own bed, but he doesn’t want this to end, whatever it is. He thinks about teaching Adam how to play pool. Adam teaching him how to ride a stupid bike. He thinks about holding Adam’s hand while they fell asleep. When he turns his head, Adam’s already looking at him, smiling faintly.

“Ronan,” Adam says, one second before Ronan leans in to kiss him.

There’s one moment, just a fraction of a second, when Adam freezes and Ronan thinks he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life. But then, by some miracle, Adam is cupping Ronan’s face in his hands and kissing him back, fervent and messy. It is not chaste or casual; Ronan slips a hand into Adam’s hair and Adam climbs halfway into Ronan’s lap, using the added height to open Ronan’s mouth and deepen the kiss. Ronan nips playfully at Adam’s bottom lip and Adam makes an enthusiastic sound in the back of his throat, brushing a thumb lightly across one of Ronan’s cheekbones, and Ronan thinks he understands the concept of rebirth.

When they pull apart an indiscernible amount of time later, Adam is flushed and sweaty and Ronan knows he can’t be much better. Adam climbs from his lap and throws himself backwards against the arm of the couch, pushing his hair out of his face with a triumphant grin playing on his lips. 

“What are you so happy about?” pants Ronan, just to be a shithead.

Adam is nothing if not surprising, though. “I knew you’d kiss me first,” he says, smug. “You can’t get enough of me. I’m irresistible.”

Ronan rolls his eyes, even though Adam isn’t necessarily wrong. “Oh, like you didn’t just jump me,” he mutters, shaking his head. “God, you’re full of yourself.”

Adam laughs, unrestrained and buoyant. “Come here,” he says, still smiling, and who is Ronan to say no to him?

A few hours later, they’re standing in the cramped bath area of the bathroom-kitchen-laundry room, Adam’s chest to Ronan’s back. They regard their reflections in the cracked, spotted mirror, and Adam leans forward and presses the softest of kisses to the back of Ronan’s neck while one finger traces the edges of the tattoo that spans Ronan’s entire back.

“Unguibus et rostro,” Adam murmurs, his lips brushing Ronan’s skin.

It takes Ronan a few seconds to realize what Adam has just said. “Wait a second,” he demands, a touch too loud for the confined area. “Was that Latin? Do you speak _Latin_?”

Adam hums, giving Ronan’s shoulder a closed-lip kiss. “Yeah, a bit,” he admits.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

Adam looks up at Ronan in the mirror then, smiling too earnestly to come across as sarcastic. “It’s like I said. Everyone’s got their secrets.”

Ronan abandons the conversation in favor of more fun activities. He can always bring it up again later.

“I hear you like my pie,” is the first thing that Persephone says to Ronan upon meeting him.

It’s the fourth Thursday of November, and Ronan is shaking hands with the strange trio of women who own Fox Way Diner. He does his best to come across as polite, even though Adam, the dick, introduced him as _my asshole boyfriend_. Maura and Calla don’t seem to be too concerned with him, but Persephone, the wispy blonde, instantly begins to make conversation with him. He chalks it up to the fact that she’s the closest to Adam, and she probably wants to make sure Ronan is good enough for him before she gets all buddy-buddy.

“I do,” says Ronan, trying (and mostly failing) to imitate Adam’s easy, friendly manner. He smiles, but he’s pretty sure it looks more like a pained grimace. “They’re all great, but my favorite’s the blueberry.” He thinks, but doesn’t add, _it reminds me of my mom_.

There’s a knowing glint in Persephone’s eyes, and she takes his hands in hers for a moment. “The blueberry is his favorite, too,” is all she says, but she says it so intensely that Ronan knows — or, at least, vividly imagines — that she means something else. He can’t put it into words, but he gets it. Gets her. Gets Adam.

When they sit down to eat, Ronan sits in the seat Adam saved for him, right at the end of the table. They don’t go around and say what they’re all thankful for like Ronan’s family used to, but beneath the tablecloth, Adam seeks out his hand and gives it a squeeze as if to say, _this year, I’m thankful for you._

Ronan’s answering squeeze says _I’m thankful for you, too. And Persephone’s blueberry pie. But mostly for you._

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it! i know the ending is kinda weird, sorry. it seems i'm physically incapable of choosing one concept and sticking to it! also, adam and ronan live in a universe where covid-19 isn't a thing, but we don't, so please make sure you mask up and socially distance! and to my american friends, it's almost that time - i hope you've voted or have a plan in place to vote soon if you can! thanks for reading, p.s. title comes from those nights by bastille :)


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